Christmas Eve
by Eraina
Summary: [The Mummy: The Series] Colin Weasler, the mummy’s servant, is living a life that he considers long since lost. With the help of a loaded pistol, Christmas Eve will be a turning point for him…but in what way? One-shot.


**Christmas Eve**

**By: **Eri

**Rated: **R, for mature themes, drug use, a little cursing (thoughts) and a general feeling of despair. But the ending is cheesily optimistic!

**Genre: **Angst/Drama

**Summary: **The Mummy: The Series Colin Weasler, the mummy's servant, is living a life that he considers long since lost. With the help of a loaded pistol, Christmas Eve will be a turning point for him…but in what way? One-shot.

Disclaimer: I own nothing—sad, but true

So, praise Heaven, you can't sue!

No likey, no ready

Results to me feedy

That's all—now please read… go to end of Chapter to read the end of this limerick!

Author's Note: I'm actually pretty happy with how this story came out, despite the oh-so-perfect ending. If you think I should write an alternate ending that's more practical, by all means, tell me so. However, as it is Christmas Eve, at the moment, I thought general good feeling should prevail…so the ending stays. Just a note—I wrote this a long, long time ago. Some months, at least. I think over the summer, maybe; I don't keep track. So, just so you know, it wasn't Christmas at all when I wrote this! Oh, and, finally—just because you don't know this character doesn't mean you don't need to read…he's an everyman, an everyslave in the Mummy world, and his plight is the plight of many.

In a small, abandoned apartment in the shabby section of London, Colin sat and looked at the gun.

He was unmoving, as if stillness would spare him the pain that tore at him from the inside. He couldn't get rid of it. It was always there now, always haunting him. Even Christmas Eve brought him no joy.

His mind wandered down the street, over the frosty embankment of snow, to the more commercialized part of London. It thought back hours to the time when a pale cold light had shown in the sky, and the air was fresh and chill with newness. He had been out shopping, and with a brown paper bag in his hand, he had walked down that street, just this afternoon. The colors were bright, golds and reds and greens. The storefronts were alive with moving figures and flowing forms. He had stopped in front of a particularly lively display, gazed through the smooth glass and imagined the scent of pine needles, of nutmeg and peaches. Christmas smells. Once he had wanted those things; once, when he was still young, they had awoken a rush of warm excitement and promise and hope. He looked through the glass, feeling almost as though he could reach through it and touch those times again. He had moved forward, his fingertips outstretched…and then the light had changed, and he saw only his own face, reflected against the glass, a blank white background of light behind him, and his fingers had brushed the cold solid surface. He looked at his face, the visage of a man with a heart as cold as the glass, and took his hand from the surface, turned away. The warmth was gone from him now. He could never touch it again.

He had turned and continued up the street.

The afternoon deepened; the light left as he had trudged on in the snow. Stars appeared between the gray veil of clouds, winked overhead. He saw his breath in the lamplight that petered out as he approached the place that the mummy had broken into, where they were staying. Darkness closed around him as it had closed around his heart. Feeling hunted, he had looked furtively up the street before opening the creaking door and heading upstairs for dinner.

Christmas dinner. Ah, God, it had been so long. His father hadn't cooked dinner since his mother had left. He had been only six. Still…he pushed the thoughts away. He couldn't think of family. He had no family now, not since he'd gotten the notice while away at Cambridge that his father had died in a wreck. He'd hardly cared. He hadn't come to the funeral. No one had.

With his father's death, his past was buried. Literally. He had started a new life. He survived by himself. Loneliness and sadness built in him like a parasite eating away at his heart, and…mustn't think about that, either.

He'd eaten alone at a crude table he'd found upended in a corner, on a stool, the only piece of furniture he'd found. The mummy didn't eat. Generally, he left Colin alone to sleep whenever the pair of them found a shelter unlikely to be disturbed. He was probably in another part of the house now, plotting or scheming or dreaming whatever he dreamt. Colin didn't care.

He'd eaten what he'd bought with the last of his money, crackers and an apple and a handful of peanuts. Then he'd taken the bottle of hard scotch that he'd also bought—it was good scotch, too; he'd checked—and climbed up the rickety stairs to a shabby bedroom.

The bed was set with dirty, moth-eaten gray covers that may have once been a pale blue. There was a dresser over on the other side of the room, with a few drawers still remaining, and a stained mirror. Colin set the bottle down on the dresser and sat on the edge of the bed, under the soft glow of the electric light. He shut the grimy window, latched it, and turned to look at the dresser and the bottle, debating.

Colin had never touched alcohol before, although in college he'd heard of, and seen, its effects. He'd never much enjoyed the portrait of himself staggering drunk back home after a party, as his slothful roommate had done all too often. Now, however, well…he was desperate.

For the first time in his life, Colin wanted to get drunk. He wanted to slip away from reality for a moment, live in a world that was loud and free and painless. He wanted to be happy, for just…just _one _God damn minute, and if this was the only way to do it, well, so be it.

He opened the bottle and the harsh smell already made him want to throw up. He had no idea how he was possibly going to do this. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tilted the bottle upward, to his lips, and let it slide over his tongue.

He choked as he swallowed it, coughed violently and set the bottle down on the dresser with a loud _thunk. _The scotch was like fire, searing down his esophagus. He doubled over and coughed, and his knee slammed itself against the dresser. He swore loudly and bent to massage his knee, and as he did so he saw that the drawer had opened a little. Inside was something black and metal and shining. The pain in his knee dulled to a throb, and he bent and opened the drawer a little more, and stared at what was inside. It was a loaded pistol.

Colin's eyes widened; it was, he realized, like a sign. A higher power was telling him what to do, that it was futile to try to drown his torment with alcohol like this. Obviously. A flitting thought flashed through his mind, almost unnoticed, and he responded to it: _End it? Now?_

He vacillated for a moment, then, tentatively, drew the thing out of the drawer and dropped it on the dresser. It lay innocently, a simple piece of metal that had the power to end the pain that welled inside him. Mind whirling, he staggered backwards and sat on the shabby bed, gripping the covers and looking at the thing. And that was where he was now.

He'd been looking at it for over twenty minutes now. He felt the edge of the scotch poking at his mind. End it? Was that what he was supposed to do? He'd never seriously considered suicide. It seemed something that only happened to the poor and destitute…he laughed bitterly. The reality was, he was poor and destitute now. He'd touched liquor for the first time tonight. Why shouldn't it be a night for firsts?

Still, he was reluctant. He pictured it—himself picking up the pistol, pointing it at his head, and… He broke off, shuddering. His natural cowardice was there, preventing him. It would never allow him a way out.

Unless….

Colin eyed the bottle on the tabletop. Courage. That was what he needed now, more courage than he'd ever had in his life, and liquor could give you a false courage. All he'd have to do was down an entire bottle of that stuff, and he would be all too eager to do it, and too drunk to care. His resolve hardened, and he stood up, suddenly, and gripped the bottle with white hands. Body trembling, he tilted the neck to his mouth and drank in long gulps, as fast as possible, feeling the liquid burn down his throat and light his heart with the warmth of courage. He stopped, took a breath, sat back down on the bed, aware that his rational mind would be slipping away very soon. He said his goodbyes to the world, then sat, looked around, looked at the gun, and waited.

He looked at the bottle, half surprised at what he'd done. It was nearly half empty, and its contents burned like fire through his veins. He wondered for a moment whether he should leave it…but then, if he was going to go through with this, what could it hurt? He drank from the long neck again, getting used to the flavor. It _was _good scotch, as scotches went, powerful and potent. Maybe that would make it easier.

He nursed the bottle for a while, drank until his eyes were bleary with tears from its fumes. Soon he was holding nothing but an empty glass container. He looked at that for a moment, then tossed it into the corner, where it clinked and rattled to a halt against the wall. He sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the alcohol's strength rush through him. He looked at the pistol, vacillating still.

_What are you waiting for?_

He pondered that. What _was_ he waiting for? Intervention. No. It wouldn't come. Imhotep was the only one here, and he didn't care, anyway. Another breath. Another useless moment of life wasted.

_It's your time._

Suddenly decisive, Colin stood up and gripped the pistol in his hand. He turned it, looked at it from all angles. He might as well be familiar with the weapon that would end his life. He pressed the muzzle against the palm of his hand; it was cold and round and could fire a cold piece of metal at hundreds of miles per hour. He would barely feel anything before it shattered him.

_Good._

He took two steps backwards, to the edge of the bed, so that he would fall back onto it. He swayed slightly, half sick.

_Do this. For once in your life, do something right. Make your death right._

Colin squeezed his eyes shut, took the gun and carelessly flicked off the safety, and put the muzzle against his temple, just over his right ear. It pressed the stem of his glasses into his scalp, painfully. It felt so surreal that he opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of himself in the faded mirror—a man, broken, with a pistol to his head.

_Oh, God, I can't…I can't do it…_

_Do it!_

He took a deep breath, swallowed. The gun was still against his head.

_God damn it, Colin, you're so stupid! Do it!_

He was sobbing. Tears slid down his cheeks. No more walks. No more sunset. No more breath. Goodbye, world. Goodbye, life. Goodbye, Colin.

Goodbye, pain.

With a sudden sense of right, he turned away from the mirror and pulled the trigger.

A million thoughts. A million moments, all crammed into that second of time while his finger tensed, and the expectation thrilled him. He saw his whole life in a split second, and in that split second he came to a horrible realization.

_Oh, God, I don't want to die!_

But his finger had already followed through.

He waited for the light, or the darkness. He waited for the abyss.

He kept waiting.

There was cool metal against his hand, and a painful pressure against his right temple. He slowly, tentatively, opened his eyes, saw the slice of light. His breath fled from him in one long gasp of relief, and his whole body fell limp. The gun dropped softly against the bedsheets, and he could see—just—the bullet, wedged in the barrel. It had caught. Oh, God, it had caught. Two more inches, two more inches, and…

He rolled over onto his stomach and hugged the pillow like a human being, his body shaking in gasping sobs. It was as though adrenaline had flushed all the scotch out of his blood. He saw everything perfectly clearly. Oh, God, he had come so close. Just two more inches, and his life would have been gone. He could barely believe he had brought himself two inches from death.

_Oh, God, thank you. Thank you. Thank you…_

The desperate wanting to live had driven away the wish to die. He wanted everything all over again. He wanted to go back to that store and dance around the Christmas tree in the front window. He wanted to watch a thousand sunsets and end a thousand lifetimes on the beach. He wanted the taste of chocolate, and the sound of rain. He wanted to shout and weep and pray. With sudden, giddy conviction, he swept an arm across the bed and the gun clattered onto the floor.

He sat there for a moment, breathing, until he became aware of a movement beyond the window, soft and steady. He looked outside. Ivory-white flakes were clotting down over London's streets, littering themselves over the ground below and turning everything to freezing white.

Exultant, Colin jumped up from the bed and pulled on his coat, dashed downstairs two at a time. He passed the crude table with the brown paper bag and ran out the front door, laughing like a schoolboy seeing his first snow or a teenager with his first love. He barely felt the cold.

When the mummy woke up the next morning, he would see his servant, outside the window, still laughing and playing in the empty, snowy street, snowflakes in his hair and a flock of snow angels scattered around him. It would be Christmas Day—the day that Colin Weasler was reborn.

That day, no one was against him, and no one would hate him, not even the O'Connells when they saw him marveling at the window as they passed him on the street and wondered, for a moment, whether he'd gone insane. That day, the whole world would join Colin to say, emphatically, with living, beating hearts: Hallelujah!

Limerick end--> ….and review!

Endnotes: Yes, I was depressed when I wrote this. However, depression does help my writing, as I've found. I've also found through research and such that many, many people who attempt suicide regret it in the seconds before they die. For too many, it's too late. Too many Christmases will be marred this year by the pain of death. There's always something—the taste of chocolate, the sound of rain. Another snow angel to make. All you have to do is enjoy it.


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